March 19, 2021
Some more of my pseudo-sonnets for my class of 1974 in the old white high school building, for this week. I haven’t gotten bogged down yet within writer’s block gumbo. When you write what you know, or at least what you think you know, the words flow like augered wheat.
Memory lane, seems mostly overgrown,
Not as if jackpine thick, but still obscured,
But I’m winding my way, kicking pine cones,
My heart lifts inches, beats far from austere.
Kelly one of a kind, some glad, they groaned,
Keith, utilitarian — he procured,
Lynette with strawberry grins, country sewn.
Bryce in p...
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